


Porcelain

by VerdantMoth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Love Bites, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-08-23 14:23:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16620695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: They treat you like you’re porcelain; delicate and breakable, a constant barrage of hands at your elbows, your hips, pulling you this way and pushing you that. Guiding you through the trails you’ve wandered for a decade. Shoving you away from the blows of bandits you could easily dodge.





	Porcelain

They treat you like you’re porcelain; delicate and breakable, a constant barrage of hands at your elbows, your hips, pulling you this way and pushing you that. Guiding you through the trails you’ve wandered for a decade. Shoving you away from the blows of bandits you could easily dodge.

They’re careful, but only when it suits them. When they remember you might shatter if they let you fall. It doesn’t stop them from using you, from expecting you to always be at their beck and call.

The king puts you on a pedestal, on display, and works you hard when he takes you down. Running errands and serving meals. Easing his queen’s burden. Even still they handle you with gloves. Like they’re careful of the marks your skin might bear.

_ He _ isn’t though. Not when he shows up drunk in your bed telling you of his latest conquest. Not when he tackles you in the stable, laughing and taunting, knocking the swords from you arms.

He’s apologetic then, about the swords.  But his hands are firm and rough when they pick you up by the shoulders. He startles your steed, races you through the underbrush. He lets you fight your own battles, stands at your back and trust you to defend your own front.

The first time he kisses you, there is nothing delicate about the clashing of teeth, the way he bites your lips, sucks them into his mouth. He caresses the wound with his tongue even as his fingers scrabble at your waists.

He leaves blue bruises, like the patterns on dishware and he does not apologize.

He might look at you like your porcelain; like a work of art so delicately created, but he handles you like steel. A weapon that fits in his hands, made for him.

He wields you against the king, against the queen, stands by you when your arms spark and you show the court just how strong you are. You are something that fits here, something that belongs in the bustle of the court.

Not a work of art to be put on display.

He laughs, then. Tells you he thinks you’re the most beautiful work of art, a perfectly forged sword, the softest of furs. You’re meant to be handled, and he’s going to show you  _ exactly how his hands fit around you, his fingers fit inside you. _

 


End file.
